


Technicolour

by facade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Antagonism, Aromanticism, Asexual/Allosexual Relationship, Borderline Personality Type, Borderline!Sergio, Cluster A Personality, Cluster B Personality, Emotional Hyperreactivity and Hypersexuality, Indifference and Apathy, Jealousy, M/M, MDD, Overt Schizoid, Schizoid Personality Type, Schizoid!Cris, Schizoid/Borderline, Sex-Indifferent Asexuality, Vandalism, Violent/Aggressive Behaviours, Wizard of Oz References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never liked the idea of an Oz. He had never understood the obsession over colour, the meanings people tried to give them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Oz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was in love with Kansas.

He’s obsessed with a time when people seemed to bleed in black and white, obsessed with a time when nothing was deemed sexier than a cigarette wedged between lips as smoke curled past them, a time when the world was presented as nothing more than lines with varying shades of gray to fill them, a time when encased colour was still a luxury. He’s obsessed with print, with twelve point Times New Roman staining thin sheets of a piece of tree, obsessed with the power of words and with the freedom of interpretation that most words always seemed to bring with them, with loose definition and theories, ideas.

He was in love with Kansas, had never wondered about rainbows and he had always been resistant to the idea of inserting himself within an Oz. He never understood the colour, had never understood the obsession society seemed to have with it – too much red, too much blue, shades of various greens, and even more yellow… He had never understood their obsession with it but he didn’t need to understand… 

> He was smiling – but that in itself wasn’t unusual; there were a lot of people at the park who were smiling for reasons he, himself, couldn’t pinpoint – but there had been something different about this other man’s smile.
> 
> “Look at that,” the shriveled being who had been sharing the bench with him had observed, pointing out the couple that had been gesticulating wildly just across the way from where they sat together (yet apart). “It looks like that young man’s worked himself into a pickle. That young lady right there, she’s seeing red.”
> 
> He had never understood either expression – he had never understood what prompted a person to speak to a complete stranger either – but he looked anyway, nodded with the shriveled man anyway. (I understand why you’d say that) he projected on the outside as he attempted to connect the dots internally – attempted and failed.
> 
> The man was still smiling and the woman, the woman’s voice was still escalating, her gestures quickly growing more wild, more rapid. Everyone was stopping now – joggers, children, nannies, dog walkers – everyone watching the scene unfold before them, listening as she yelled about some other woman, about some weekend in the past. Their attentions were feeding her; he could see that. She gradually became even more theatrical, even more dramatic promising them all a show and he wondered why she’d done that for strangers. All eyes on them and yet still the man smiled.
> 
> “She’s going to eat that poor boy for breakfast if he keeps that up. She looks like a rabid poodle.”
> 
> (I understand why you’d say that) he projected on the outside with an indifferent nod. Her movements: now something frantic and scattered, something difficult to follow as her voice patterns scattered and shattered around her. Her voice declined from strong to broken, her tone from flat to a noise both raised and pitchy, her stance from indifferent and passive to explosive and full. Words move past smiling lips: one word, two words, three words and calm. Hands on her cheek bones: one word, two words and she breaks, falls to tears as she mumbles three broken words back.

He was in love with Kansas, with his world of black and white lines filled with mixing grays, and he'd never wondered about rainbows nor the other side of them; Oz had never been a place he’d ever envisioned for himself. It all seemed too chaotic, too unpredictable and the people there: they were too bright, they were too colourful – they were too vulnerable. There was a weakness within Oz, a weakness in their colour as it rapidly changed and could be easily manipulated from and to any pigment. He didn’t mind his side of the rainbow…

…until he did, until he met him.

You see, someone had once told him that Oz was somewhere over a rainbow, that it could be found within yourself if you searched hard enough, deep enough… but no one had ever warned him that it could be found in a coffee house on the corner of Oleander and St Peters with a macchiato in its hand and a smile devouring its face. Someone had lied about Oz.

He had leapt over a rainbow without ever having realised it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an update for CM ready but there's so much Crimessi on here now that I've become completely dissuaded from posting it. If it's not Germany NT it's Crimessi and I'd rather give attention to the neglected ships. ((Sorry)).


	2. Technicolour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me feels as if I should give this a trigger warning as some of this chapter may be read as abuse though it isn't due to the relationship dynamic. Perhaps "violent outburst" is better suited though the only things [ever] affected are inanimate objects.
> 
> Also, this update was written on my phone at a cardiology appointment. Major editing still being done.

(He's different. (Is he? Is he really different?) No, I guess he isn't). He looks up and finds the one opposite of him lost and confused, brows furrowed and the colour of his irises darkened as he tries to solve the riddle before him. He finds him. "So why him?" Searches the features of the man encased in glass for some kind of semblance, some kind of meaning, only to be greeted with an empty expression. A shrug, not at all dismissive but a shrug because he truly does not know why.

> Sergio. Tattooed and muscled, leaning against the countertop as he mumbled a flirtatious little nothing to the Becky, Sara, whoever as she made him some whatever chocked full with an hour of heart palpitations and all of the bitterness of his great-grandfather as he would discuss his day while condemning the millennials. He didn't care for what the other man had said, wasn't concerned enough with his existence to allow himself to be distracted by his flirtation but the Christine, Jessica, whoever he had been speaking with had spotted him from the other side of the tattooed other and was smiling at him. He probably should have smiled back. He didn't.
> 
> "Oh, there you are, Cris! Oh, look at that: eight sharp. You're good but I'm better. I've already made your green tea for you!" This Tabitha, Megan, whoever was too chipper for his liking, way too happy over nothing but he traded his card for the cup regardless. Still no smile.
> 
> "Cris? What's that short for? Christopher? Christian?" Sergio. "Christmas?" Tall and handsome with his hair just so. "If I knew Christmas liked to come early, I'm sure I'd have been more of a morning person, and perhaps a bit naughtier. I'm going to have to work on that." A laugh that made the Cynthia, Karen, or whoever that was supposed to be swiping his card stop for a moment as that laugh commanded the attention of all around. A laugh that paved the way for a smile so bright and luminous that the lights of the Bernabéu paled in comparison (his father had taken him to Madrid once. Once. He only remembers the light of the temple). It devoured his features: eyes twinkling, crinkles by his eyes. He's beautiful... but a lot of people are. A moment and the smile faded. "I'm sorry. That was corny and awful. God, was that awful..." Sergio. Whose cheeks flushed to a crimson red and who ran a hand behind his neck when he was nervous. Who shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he became overridden by his nerves. "That wasn't even, that was... Let me make it up to you? I'd buy your tea but you seem to already have that handled. Scone? Yeah, I don't care for them either." He was leaning back against the counter, flustered and seemingly peeved with himself. Pink. Pink Sergio.
> 
> An upturned corner of his lips against an otherwise blank expression. He leaned forward and could hear the breathing hitch of the man holding the cup with the name Sergio scribbled on it as he reached past him. "Thank you," a pause as he spared a quick glance at the name badge, "Tonya." He regarded the other man one more time with an amused, almost pity filled expression just before he made his way back out onto the city's busy streets.
> 
> It's one of his favourite places to be. He loves the smell of the always wet pavement, loves the way the city looks beneath thick clouds of gray, loves the way the steam of his tea rushes to escape his cup only to disperse to nothing in the cold of the air around him.
> 
> "Hey!"
> 
> He loves the way the faces around him blur, loves the way the city looks two dimensional around him as he's beautifully confined to surface observations. He loves the way he feels invisible within it. Just another face in a mix of hundreds, thousands.
> 
> "Hey, Christmas!" ...and the voice finds him in the blurs of the city, finds his mediocrity against a sea of it. He can't help but roll his eyes as he turns on his heel to find the source of the call. Sergio. Persistent Sergio. "I'm sorry if I offended you in there. That was cheesy, crude depending on how you took it. Uncalled for either way. I'm stupid sometimes."
> 
> He took a moment to wonder why the man followed him out but quickly realized that he didn't care for the reasoning. "It's fine. I didn't get it to be completely honest." He shrugged and pulled up the zipper of his jacket until it was pressed against his neck, checked his wrist and frowned. "I have to go now, Sergio. I'll be late for work if I don't hurry."
> 
> The other smiled, blushed at the way the other's accent played with the letters and sounds of his name, still as he watched the other walk away. He hated that; watching the someone he wanted, needed to know more leave as he did nothing and yet here he was, standing still, watching for the second time in one day. He hated that the other, that the man named Cris wore a watch even more.

_("Who still wears watches?" "Fashion over function." "That's what you say when you're wearing a sweater and a scarf in ninety degree weather." "Or a watch when your phone displays a more accurate time.")_

> "See you tomorrow at eight, Christmas?"
> 
> "God, I hope not."
> 
> Sergio's smile grew wider as he was well aware that he wasn't supposed to hear Green Tea's parting words and he chuckled a bit before his smile faded with the image of the other. Eyebrows drawn together as the four echoed. Perhaps he was supposed to hear it. He couldn't tell with this one, with this man who drank green tea instead of coffee, who wore watches despite their lack of functionality, who chose blank stares and silence over polite smiles and light banter, who was a regular at a coffee house yet he seemed to know no one there. No, on second thought, those words were probably meant for his ears. His smile returned.

Cris jumped as a soft knock pulled him away from his thoughts; startled, he quickly played with the knobs of the sink before him, splashing some of the cool water spilling out of the faucet onto his face in an attempt to clear his head. He needed to reconnect. This, his physicality with this, his thoughts. Present. Future. Now, now, now. He reached out and pulled at the hand towel until it escaped its ring and opened the door with his free hand to reveal a nervous Sergio leaning against the frame.

"Hey. Are you, are you okay? I didn't mean to scare you, I just..." he trailed as he waited for Cristiano to finish drying his face and bit his lip as he reached forward to wipe away the stray traces of water Cristiano had missed. He wasn't surprised when Cristiano instinctively pulled away but he smiled a bit as Cris fell back within his range of reach. "Time doesn't oblige us to do anything. I know that. I just thought... It's been four months and I just wanted you to know that when you're ready, I'm ready."

"Yeah. I, uh, I know what you meant. It's fine and if you feel as if you're, as if we're ready for, for... then I don't see why we should put it off any longer." He threw the towel over the other's head, tried to keep his smile internal as it fell within the hoop of the laundry basket.

"I just don't want you to feel forced or anything. I know we're not supposed to talk about our past relationships or anything like that but have you ever...? I know it's weird and not my business or anything but have you ever had sex with anyone or...?" Pink Sergio.

"I'm twenty-six, Sergio. I've had sex, plenty of times. It was, it was always different though. It was never... I mean, we weren't anything when we... I've never, I've never had sex within a relationship if that's anything worth mentioning but..." (and I don't see the need for it in a relationship but) he decides rather quickly (that isn't worth mentioning). He liked his space and he hated having people in it; two but one was fine but he didn't like when the two took up so much of his one at times. Sex was one of those times. Sex was, sex was too personal, too close, too intimate, invasive and greatly exaggerated. People usually cried and regretably confessed their undying feelings for one another after it on their euphoric high, ruining friendships and casting even more weight on significant others... At least Miguel had before he had cast an expectant gaze on Cristiano, waiting. Waiting for something but Cris had been unsure of what. He had figured it out [eventually] but he had known that if he had spoken, if he had appeased to the wishes of the other, it would have been a lie. If he had spoken. So he simply didn't. He loved his silence. Casual, casual kept things simpler.

"If you're scared or something, you know you can tell me, right?"

A chuckle. "I'm not scared, Sergio" (but I wish I was). His hand fell into Sergio's, fingers threading into one another's as he allowed himself to be led into the candlelit bedroom. He had laughed when he had first caught sight of the bedroom cast in the dim orange hue of the candle light, when he found the flecks of soft red scattered across the bedspread but he had swallowed his amusement rather quickly. This: candles, flowers, moonlight sneaking into the bedroom by way of open French doors as thin curtains flutter in the breeze to the sounds of Lionel Richie. This: the idea of bodies meshing together, of sweat and cum covered sheets, of him inside of him, of fingernails digging into flesh, of moans escaping their lips. This meant something to Sergio and Sergio, Sergio meant something to him. Something.

"You're sure?"

He didn't know how he ended up standing in front of Sergio, the back of his knees pressing against the mattress as the large brown eyes of the other man seemed to search his own features for any signs of doubt, for something. He shifted awkwardly under the weight of the attention. He must have zoned out again. He did that often. Eyes searching him still. He nodded indifferently and offered a half shrug, rolling his eyes as Sergio pressed his forehead against his chest and sighed in response.

"Why do you have to always be like that?" He reached up and squeezed the biceps of the taller man and took a step forward to close the small space between them. "You never say yes." Lips finding the flesh of a neck, a pulsing carotid as fingers traced the dip of the waist and the rise of the hips. "You never say no." A jawbone between full lips, high cheekbones beneath fingertips. "You always shrug or you mumble 'I don't care'. You never, you never tell me what you want. You always..."

Sergio talked too much and Cristiano always grew bored of his rambling about five words in. He loved his silence. He'd learned rather quickly that the only way to effectively silence the other was with lips but he'd never tell Sergio that he only liked kissing him for the silence it created between them. Never as in neither today nor tomorrow, not next week unless, unless, unless.

Silk sheets pressing against his back (are these new?), a pillow stuffed with plush beneath his head, and hands roaming his body anxiously, desperately. He's sure some romantic seated in the corner documenting this moment would describe the scene as Sergio reaching into him and stealing his breath away with the passion of the kiss but, for the love of all reality and actuality, Sergio was quite heavy, was quite on top of him, and his quite full lips were preventing him from taking in any air whatsoever...

Fortunately, Sergio hadn't quite figured out what it was that he was doing and was soon sitting beside him holding his face in the palm of his hands, sniveling. "I feel so fucking stupid right now." He threaded his fingers through his hair and looked down at the man lying beside where he now sat, teeth gritted and tears threatening to spill. "I've never, I've been with a guy before but I was drunk and I... I can tell you're not into it, Cris. It's obvious and I just..." Clinched fists and a reddening face.

Red. Sergio was red. Cris had noticed it, had opened his mouth to respond but he didn't have the chance. A pillow had been pulled off of the bed from somewhere behind him, had been launched across the room, stopping only after it had knocked over a few of the candles and had spilled fire into the apartment. Picture frames were being knocked out of their places, glass shattering as the frames that once held the sheets met the floor. Lionel Richie condemned to sing one word: you, you, you, you, you over and over again as smoke consumed the empty spaces of the bedroom. Cris simply watched, awestruck and amazed, captivated, touched yet not.

"I just, I just need for you to understand how much you mean to me, Cris! I just want to show you and I can't and I, and I hate myself for it! ...but you! You don't fucking care!"

"Sergio." He didn't mean to yawn. He truly didn't. It was late and he was tired. "Why are you shouting?"

"Oh my fucking god! Seriously?! You're not even pretending to give a shit at this point, huh? You don't, you've never even loved me, have you?! You've never..."

Cris drew his brows together and watched the little flames eat away at Sergio's wall, watched them grow with the passage of time. (He's different. (Is he? Is he really?)) Sergio. Whose blue is too blue. Whose red is too red. The rest of the world pales in comparison to Sergio's world, to his oversaturated reality. For a moment, for a moment he finds himself taken aback by the vibrancy of Sergio's colour, overwhelmed and suffocating... but the moment passes and his vision adjusts. He glances out the window and finds the trees a little duller than they were yesterday, the stars toned down from their once piercing white to a soft eggshell as if they had been operating on a dimmer switch the whole time, and he was certain that tomorrow, tomorrow the yellow of the sun will be a bearable enough shade to gaze upon.

"Not everyone loves the same, Sergio." He climbed off of the bed and made his way into the kitchen, filling Sergio's mop bucket with water just before toting it back into the room, water sloshing over the side but neither gave a shit. "I'm not sure if I need to remind you that your apartment is on fire but it is. Trust me, out of the seven billion people in the world, you're the only one I'd ever get a bucket of water for if I saw that your house was on fire. That's something, right? Oh, look at that: Fire. Water. I care, Sergio."

* * *

 

He could still hear Lionel Richie singing his "you, you, you, you" on repeat and he could still see shards of glass covering the floor, the charred wallpaper and half eaten drawer in the place of flames. A hole in the wall that Sergio had put there when he hadn't returned his "I love you" and the broken bathroom door. Candle wax sticking to carpet fibers. He could still see the empty bucket on the floor and their discarded clothes around it, the broken pieces of the smoke detector surrounded by at least ten unopened condoms and an opened bottle of lube, some of its contents still seeping out of it.

His body felt sore and swollen, his muscles stiff and his eyelids heavy. An arm was thrown possessively over his chest and he could feel the breath of the other warmly creeping against his neck. He yawned, ready to surrender to the sandman just before he caught sight of his own reflection in the vanity resting just across from where he lay. The bite marks around his collarbone were already turning into plum bruises, the scratches on his arm already scabbed over; in a trance like state, he reached up to touch them, around and across, eyes widening as he felt the indentions and raises momentarily embedded within his flesh beneath his fingertips. Amazing.

He had never liked the idea of an Oz but he had found himself trapped in the reality of one, in Sergio's reality. Realities. Ideas. They never align. He was far too intrigued and far too curious by this Oz's wonders to venture forth on some yellow brick road of introspection. Far too consumed by its vibrancy to worry about how he'd find his way back to his colourless world, how he'd find his way home. Infatuated by the moving hyperrealistic art that was Sergio's reality.

A little white house with a little white porch resting on a green that was too green against the backdrop of a sky that was too blue. Too much. Too little. Too Oz. Too Kansas. Just a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Christmas. Actual fucking pickup line I heard this morning directed at a Chris. Ridiculous.


	3. Green

Miguel was standing in front of him and his hands were shifting empty spaces at great speeds, a bright smile painted heavily against his features as he excitedly told him about some book club or something. Some group that enabled new authors to put their work out there with open readings and discussions or something. A mass gathering of critics and cynics that built and destroyed as they stuffed their faces with a table covered in scones and some other whatevers and stale coffee... or something. (Thrilling). He supposes that Miguel will be going to this gathering, to this shindig, and he'll probably join this cult or perhaps - perhaps he's already gone, has already converted... Perhaps.

Cristiano couldn't say which for a certainty as he had stopped listening after "for new authors" but he had been nodding in faux intrigue while staring at the bridge of the other's nose. Fact: while Miguel’s interests were ‘eh’, he certainly had a lovely nose and Cris had something close enough to what some would call manners - or a high tolerance level. 

Truth be told, he hated new authors with a passion that could only be paralleled to that of the most radical sports fans, but the other seemed ecstatic about the group - the cult, the whatever - so he allowed him to rant and ramble, unhindered and without interruption. (He knew that he was probably sparing someone else in his doing so, he was sure of it and he was intent on sealing his status within sainthood). It wasn't that he hated the occupation, that he hated writing in itself - hell, he loved writing, was amazed with a person’s ability to paint pictures with words and find colour in black and white. No, he liked writing and all of the power it held. It was the writer he despised, the fresh ones, in particular. It was their naïveté he hated; it was their overwhelming and excessive usage of the metaphor; it was the way they tried to play with every figure of speech possible to a point where “frothy streaks of ivory” replaced the word "cloud" as if that somehow improved the image. He hated that they so often allowed their works to be dictated by their desperation to make some profound point to the whoever that had found their writings, that every ink stain on their pages had to carry some weight, some sort of meaning…

It was stupid, from where he sat. Not every great thing needed to have a meaning, much less a profound one. Not every design nor every vision, not every piece of art needed to have a point. Some things could be said, could be typed and bound into immortal ink just because. Doodled just because. Painted just because. Sculpted just because. Meaning, meaning seemed to be such a pointless little nothing to spend the entirety of something so short, something as brief as life pursuing and obsessing over. Meaning dies with its keeper...

He'd just rather spend his eighty years in the mediocrity of sipping his tea on the boardwalk, insignificant in the dark reaches of the shadows of the city, one in a hundred, a thousand, a million, seven billion... It all meant the same to him. Life could be dull and it is for most, regardless of how much someone tried to force an edge. Life could be pointless and it so often is for most. Life could be gray... There's nothing wrong, nothing bad about gray and he'd rather not spend his time with people forcing unnatural colour into their own little gray world.

Someone coughed forcing Cris to pull himself out of his own head and he found himself relieved that he was still nodding and that Miguel was still speaking, was still excited. (Yay, Miguel). He was clearing his throat and was about to excuse himself for a visit to the office’s “watering hole” when he caught sight of a familiar figure making its way out of the elevator. He stopped himself before the words ever broke free of his lips, watched as the figure stopped and looked over the cubicles one by one and he watched in wonder as how, even then, the other seemed so full of… something. How, even then, the saturation of the entire room seemed to gradually slide further and further down, down, down until all was gray except for that one little figure lasso’d into the realms of the untouched. Eyes that were too brown searching, a spirit too full searching, searching for him.

No, new writers weren't concerned with the realities of the majority; it was the vibrant colour that sold, it was the exceptions that cleared the shelves as they clawed their way through life, desperate to find their own meaning in the eyes of others, desperate to find the exceptional colour. It was those who lived amplified lives that drew the attention of the masses, those that managed to slide their saturation one, two points above the rest. Gray, gray doesn't resonate with most - most.

Cris widened his eyes and smiled softly in acknowledgement as the too brown eyes of the other finally found him. One, two, three, four seconds and the scent of the other's cologne surrounded him, consumed him with the brief warmth of the other's arms. "Hey, you," Cristiano mumbled into the broad shoulder as he fought back a yawn in the comfort of his hold. There was something about Sergio's aura that always seemed to make him tired and drowsy... "What are you doing here?" … relaxed and unguarded.

No response.

He hadn’t heard a word of Cristiano’s acknowledgement nor his question as he was much too busy sending an urgent message of his own scripted in glares and a puffed out chest. This man, this man standing in front of Cristiano’s desk… His cologne smelled nice and he had a lovely smile surrounded by beautiful lips - he’d do him, so he hated him. "I don't think I've ever met you before..." ("You've never been in here before, Sergio") "I'm Sergio." The smile was forced and empty, meaningless. The words: firm and cautionary. He had extended his hand in greeting but, in truth, he had simply wanted to see if this guy's hands were soft or as calloused and rough as his were. Cristiano loved his hands.

"Well, I'm Miguel," the other smiled as he took the outstretched hand and shook it firmly, eyebrows raised curiously as Sergio seemed to be taking in his every detail. It was chilling, unnerving but he straightened himself out and welcomed this something of an intrusion, this whatever of a challenge anyway. "I was just telling Cris about a book reading that will be going on tonight over on Adams. Yeah, it’s… A few new authors will be..."

"Oh, that's too bad,” Sergio blurted out as he played with a few of the frames on Cris’ desk (“You do know that you’re supposed to replace the company photos with personal photos, right?” “What? They’re nice photos.” “You don’t even know these people, Cris.” “Does anyone truly know anyone else, Sergio? People will only show another person what they want them to see. I look at these and I see smiles. I don’t need to know why they’re smiling. I don’t care why they’re smiling.”) He fiddled with Cristiano's clock, his pens, bent most of his paperclips... “Cris hates new authors and I hate books so it works out rather well. Reality is confusing enough on it's own and me...? Well, I'm a simple man, Michelle.” The Spaniard smiled a bit as he sensed the one named Miguel’s discomfort - yeah, he knew that man’s fucking name. “What? Cris didn't tell you? That's shocking. He spent an hour on that rant about - what was it? ...a month ago? The only authors he'll read are dead and have already written all that they will ever write. Isn't that right, Christmas? Kind of sad, really."

"You never know," Miguel tried anyway as he suddenly felt foolish, his attention redirected back on Cristiano who had taken a preference for mashing keys as the other two went back and forth. "You should still come. You never know. I mean, you might stumble on the next great..."

"Stumble," Sergio chuckled out as he once again caught the attention of the sweet smelling other. His accent kind of reminded him of Cristiano's; he hated him even more. "That sounds like it could be painful. Deadly even should he fall..." "It was a figure of speech." "Oh was it? Cris loves figures of speech. Nonliteral things. Illogical things. He goes ham for that kind of thing, don't you, Cris?"

All eyes on him and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, settling for a simple shrug and a shake of the head as he refused to take part in this "discussion". He was fairly confident that he was typing gibberish but that didn’t matter as he had finished his report and file decryptions by ‘Well, I’m Miguel’.

Sergio took Cristiano’s passiveness as a victory of his own and winked at the top of his boyfriend’s head before he turned back to Miguel, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes. "So what are you doing here?" "I work here. What are you doing here?" "Just trying to take my boyfriend out to lunch... BUT HE WON’T GET OFF OF HIS FUCKING COMPUTER." ("I'm almost finished, Sergio. Chill out, yeah?") "W-wait a minute. Boyfriend? I didn't know you had a boyfriend, Cris. I thought... You told me..." "...and I thought Cris' father was dead but he apparently works with him. That’s wonderful. He can come out to you now. Closure." ("Fuck. Fuck it. I'm done. Let's get you out of here before... I don’t know. Could you be any worse? Don’t answer that. Oh, and I decrypted that file for you and I’ve already sent it to your email, Migs.")

-

Sergio swore his tongue was bleeding by the time the elevator doors closed behind them and sealed them off from the rest of Cristiano's coworkers, from the rest of the world for a brief moment. "Who the fuck was that? ...and why the fuck did you call him Migs? Tell me that creep wasn't your boss." His blood felt like it was on fire as it coursed through his veins and ate away at everything beneath his surface; he threaded his fingers through his hair and slowed his breathing, tried to catch his breath and his thoughts as both seemed to have fled him. "Is that guy always like that?"

Cristiano checked his watch nonchalantly and carelessly leaned against the guardrail of the elevator, watching patiently as the red digital numbers counted off the floors - (elevators are pretty cool). He shrugged in response to Sergio's questions but, after a few moments, he still felt the expectant gaze of the other burning into him. "Who...? ...Miguel? He's just, he’s just some guy I work with, Sergio. We talk a bit more because we're both from Portugal." He shrugged before he released another yawn, silently wondering why 1300 felt so much like 0600, but those damned eyes were still on him. "Fine. We used to mess around before you and I got together but it was... Aya cabrón!" The elevator came to a sudden halt and he found his fingers clenching around the railing for dear life. "Why the fuck did you do that, Sergio?"

"You tell me, Cris! I walk in and see some guy hanging all over my boyfriend and then I find out that they used to fuck! Do you guys still...? Do you and 'Migs' eat a little more than lunch in the parking lot?"

He laughed. He couldn't help it. "Sergio, you can't be serious." "I'm not blind, Cristiano! I saw the way he was looking at you," he made his way towards the other, crowded him into a corner, and pointed a finger into the other’s face in an accusatory fashion "...the way you were looking at him." "Oh, for fucks sake. I was staring at his nose, Sergio. Seriously." "Oh come on! You cannot honestly expect me to believe that you wouldn't let that guy fuck you in a bathroom stall tomorrow...!" "He wouldn't fuck me. Christ, he's a bottom, Sergio." "Oh my fucking god, Cris! Are you kidding me? ...and I'm supposed to be okay with you working with that guy, with that fucking Louis Vuitton model, with that fucking, that fucking fuck?!" Green Sergio. "Well I'm not! We are, we are quitting after lunch! Do you just quit from this place or do you need a letter of fucking resignation or something?! Seriously, Cris! I’d say ‘fuck that guy’ but you already have!" Jealous Sergio.

"I can’t just quit, Sergio... and Miguel, Miguel wanted something like a, something like a relationship but it was never like that between us, was never going to be like that between us so I don't know... We just, we just stopped seeing each other and now it’s all nothing. You read into things too much; are we going to go through this every time a guy looks at me for more than two seconds because I don't know if I can handle you like this." And one more time for good measure as the saturation around Sergio was as it had always been: too much, too everything, too green. “It's nothing, Sergio. Trust me." He tugged at the collar of his suit as the sweat started forming against his hairline, his open palm against the bearded cheek of the other and a gentle kiss of assurance. “I promise, there is nothing between Miguel and I.” Elevators jumped from 'cool' to the undying object of his hatred; he hated closed spaces and god, he hated feeling restricted. "Can we, can we go now?" He reached forward and tried to hit the release button, but Sergio caught his arm and he groaned in exasperation as he felt further restricted still. “I’m going to lose my shit in here, Sergio. Seriously.”

"It's just..." Sergio was close, so very close. Perhaps too close. Everything was too close but Sergio, Sergio was as Sergio had always been: too everything, "...that you're so beautiful" he smelled like a mixture of mint and lumber, of his intoxicating cologne and of some cheap beer, "and he's so beautiful and I just... I just can't stand the thought of you two..."

"Then stop thinking about it. There is no Miguel and I - there never really was - so you're working yourself up over nothing, you're irritating me over nothing. I swear it, Sergio. Please, can we just go now? It's almost like the air in here is too thick to breathe if ever there were such a thing and I swear I'm, I’m fucking starving." He leaned forward again, hand outstretched for the button once more but his lips were caught this time, worked against by another, fuller set as hands carded through his hair. He felt his shirt coming untucked, buttons undone… Too much, too excessive, too public, too Sergio.

Seconds. Seconds. Too many seconds passed before he finally felt the elevator jerk back to life and he sighed appreciatively at the end of the lifetime wait though it sounded as a moan within the mouth of the other. He didn’t care about how it sounded, about Sergio’s response; he was simply relieved when the doors finally opened in building's parking garage, never mind his newfound disheveled state and (where the fuck is my tie?).

They weren’t even two feet out of it when Sergio spun on his heels, pressed and open palm against his chest. "Alright, so tell me... Which car is his?"

Cristiano shakes his head, well aware that Sergio is attempting to size up Miguel. "He doesn't drive to work" and he hates that he smiles as Sergio calls him out on his bluff. ("You're such a bad liar, Cris. Why do you even bother trying?") He shakes his head once more, well aware of Sergio's desperation. "I'm not a moron, Sergio. Why would I tell you which car is his? What could would possibly come of it?" 

Sergio smiled and swallowed down his desperation, well aware that Cris would be telling him within a matter of moments. "Oh, come on, Cristiano. I'm not that petty and you need to stop being such a little bitch about it. I just need a little reassurance. You know, if I see the piece of shit clunker he drives, perhaps I'll have some peace of mind or... Are you fucking kidding me?! That one?! Who the fuck?! That twat drives this fucking Porsche?!" He made his way over to the car and looked through its tinted windows, kicking the tires in disbelief as he scoffed disgustedly at the thing. "I swear to you, Cris, I listen when you speak and all but... what is it that you do again?"

Cris glanced up from his phone and smiled as he found Sergio circling the car as a vulture would his prey. "I work in the building that we just left. I write codes and shit."

Sergio glanced up with the reminder, albeit breifly. "No fucking way. My boyfriend works for Bethesda and I'm just now figuring it out. Six months in: Bethesda... Nice. I guess that means that your former boy toy can afford a new tire."

His heart jumped and his own eyes widened. He didn't know why disbelief was still a thing he experienced while he was with Sergio, yet here he was and here it was. "Sergio, don’t...! Sergio! Sergio, no...! W-why?! Why would you do that?!"

He grinned as Cristiano's panic reached him, his boyfriend's fear and concern fueling his fire within. "No, no. You're absolutely right, love. We don’t want to insult him or disrespect him or anything... He can afford two. Pft, Bethesda. I bet the two of you fucked in this bitch..."

"Sergio! Stop it! That’s, that’s illegal. You’re..." He glanced around the parking garage as he dropped his voice to a whisper, grateful that security seemed to be nowhere in sight. "You're going to get us both thrown in jail!"

"Relax! I'm not going to slash all four of them. I don't want his insurance to cover it."

Cris knew that he shouldn't be smiling. He knew that he shouldn't be encouraging Sergio like this, but there was something in the other's eyes, something gleaming and promising burning bright within them. He seemed to be full of something, full of life and full of wonder. He simply looked... Sergio was a beautiful person - he just was - but in that moment he seemed to transcend himself, seemed to transcend the beauty Cristiano had always appreciated about him. He was alive, amplified. He was truly something to behold.

Sergio was laughing as he emerged out from behind the car, jogging as he passed him, tugging on his arm with a sense of urgency. "Stop gawking, Cris! Come on! We have to get out of here before someone else sees this shit! Hurry up! Tell me, tell me...! Where did you park?" He was still running blind, pulling Cristiano behind him as he ran from one end of the garage to the other in his search of the silver Land Rover with foreign plates. He felt high, untouchable, and, as he looked behind him - as he saw the man who held his heart, as he saw a man who seemed to have tasted chocolate for the very first time only feet, inches away from him, as he felt his skin pressed up against his - he knew that he was.

Sergio found the SUV (eventually) and he threw himself into the driver's seat as soon as he heard Cris unlock the vehicle, ignoring Cris’ snide remark about his “melodrama” as he was too out of breath to argue (this time). His sweat drenched flannel clung to his chest as his heart threatened to explode out of it with each firm thump and he didn't know how he had survived while promising himself (and Cris, at times) that he'd do more cardio. He chuckled to himself as he watched Cristiano calmly climb into the passenger’s seat, drawing a fine contrast to himself as Cris was looking as composed as usual, completely disconnected from their crime. He found it all to be rather terrifying and sexy equally; Cris could probably witness a murder and he'd be affected the same.

He was staring at him, but he always stared: Cris’ shirt was wrinkled from their moment in the elevator, the top few buttons were undone and one was missing in action, his tie had gone somewhere or nowhere at all but it was no longer present, and the other’s sleeves had been shoved up past his elbows, his damned watch still hanging loosely around his wrist... He looked beautiful, irresistible (as if he'd bother trying to resist) but it was more than that, so much more than that but Sergio couldn't find the word for it if there was one. He didn't try to; he was bad with words. He settled for lips pressed against lips, hands wrapping around the other's face, a thumb stroking a cheekbone as a hand fell and led fingers to wage war with a belt. That, that he was good at. He knew that Cristiano was bound to protest at some point, knew that the other would say something about legality and public indecency, something about his visa and deportation, something about coworkers and how trashy sex in cars truly is… But that, that had always been the most beautiful thing about being with Cris: he knew that he didn’t truly know.


End file.
